Something about it will make sense. The bullets been coming from miles. Years. Their sounds will break the water in our bodies, tear sound itself, rip our lives in half. The tragedy of it all will be unspeakable, the fact that we've been fighting for decades to be recognized as present-tense people, modern and relevant, alive, only to die in the grass wearing feathers.

...projection as a concept is a slippery slope because everything could be a projections. He is regularly subjected to solipsism's recursive, drowning affect.

Jacquie and Harvey ride in Harvey's Ford pickup through a moon-purple desert on that stretch between Phoenix and Blythe on I-10.